


Five Times Tony Touches Other People's Stuff (and One Time He Breaks His Own)

by GirlofAction



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: EXCEPT WHEN IT IS, Gen, Humor, everyone gives Tony shit, it's not always Tony's fault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:17:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GirlofAction/pseuds/GirlofAction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The suit and Tony are one. Tony and the rest of the team's gear? Not so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was started in response to a prompt for [avengerskink](http://avengerskink.livejournal.com) where someone wanted to see Tony using the other Avengers' gear. I haven't written fic in a while, but this is the most fun that I can recall having while writing it. Clint's going to be up next... I don't think he'll be too thrilled either.
> 
>  ~~I don't feel sorry for Tony at all~~ Poor Tony. He just can't catch a break.
> 
> I don't intend for this to be a fic with much shipping, but I don't make any promises. I've labeled the ones that might creep in, but if they don't... look, just enjoy Tony breaking stuff, okay?

The first time Tony tries to use one of the other Avengers' gear, he nearly hits himself in the face. It's a mixture of a few of problems that Tony can hear himself going over in the debriefing.

One: overcompensation for weight, even though he knows how light vibranium is. The shield is big enough to cover the torso of a six-foot tall supersoldier; how was he supposed to know how _light_ it was? Tony will blame it on something about a glitch in Jarvis' newest physics model, and Jarvis will let him.

Two: terrible aim. Tony will blame it on a lack of depth perception due to half of his HUD going out in a power surge, which Bruce will tell him makes perfect sense, scientifically. Thor will start to protest until Natasha holds up a hand and subtly shakes her head.

Finally, three: an awful pull at his gut that Clint will happily tell him was balls-to-the-wall panic.

But why shouldn't he be panicking? Tony looks down the alley at the twenty-foot, blue flamed blaze that kept Steve trapped down here in the first place. His HUD is helpfully telling him that the only way out is up, and that's great - or, at least, it would be, if the fall hadn't damaged the repulsors beyond reckoning. If the top of the building weren't more than fifty feet overhead. If he enough power to lift himself and Steve beyond the staggering height of _a dainty hop_.

"Cap? Cap! Hey, c'mon, old timer, you're worthless to me unconscious." Tony crouches next to Steve, grabbing his shoulder and shaking hard.

Nothing. It takes something the size of a mack truck to knock Steve out for more than a second, so when Tony gets nothing more than an extremely undignified head loll, it's time to freak out. Just a little. Clint and Thor are both ringing in his comms, voices crackling and asking urgent questions that probably need answers. He ignores them.

The Bronx is a mess for five city blocks, but Tony is convinced that he and Steve have landed in the epicenter of _total shit_. The fire is pressing hot at the end of the alley, closing in at a slow pace that Tony frankly finds melodramatic; the building to his right is toppling over, brick wall buckling outward; the building to his _left_ has no doors or windows for several floors. Seriously? The dumpster toward the back of the alley is overflowing with something that Tony is fairly certain is month-old Chinese takeout, and _isn't that just the goddamned icing on the cake?_

...there's also that fire escape hanging directly over their head from the collapsing building, the ladder a tempting fifteen feet away in its locked position.

Maybe that's somewhat useful.

Tony's eyes drift to Steve's shield, still strapped to his arm. "I'm gonna have to borrow this." He almost sounds apologetic - _almost_ \- as he pulls the straps off of Steve's forearm, metal ringing against metal as he has to remove the shield with some force and ends up lightly knocking himself in the chest with the thing.

"Shit, sorry..." But it's not as though Steve is awake to scold him, so Tony isn't sure why he bothers.

He looks down at the shield, taking its edges in two hands, hefting it a couple inches in the air to test its weight. It feels like nothing... but then, the ladder is high. Tony tilts his head upward, the helmet's display zooming in on the latch to the ladder for him as he stands. 

Right. So this should be nothing. Ultralight, throwable projectile, a lever that you can see from twenty feet away? This'll be fine. How does Steve throw it? Tony holds the edge in one hand, arm across his chest like a frisbee... no, that's not how he does it. There's force to it, like a discus.

“Okay... here we go.” 

Tony's never thrown a discus. Or anything resembling a discus. Oh, hell. He winds up anyway, arm stretched out behind his back instead.

He remembers the shield hitting the latch on the latter and letting out a victorious whoop – followed by his HUD beeping about an incoming projectile.

“Oh, shit.”

It's only out of sheer luck that Tony manages to duck out of the way, the ring of the shield loud in his ears as it flies over his head by near inches. He looks over his shoulder in time to see the shield skitter across the pavement in an undignified, decidedly uncool looking fashion before lodging itself firmly under the dumpster at the end of the alley. The one with the aging chow mein spilling out of it.

“Yeah, well, whatever,” he mutters to himself, practically able to hear the lecture from Steve already. Something about being responsible with the rest of the team's gear.

He turns back to look at the ladder that's now hanging a manageable foot off of the ground and can't help but feel proud of himself. Never mind the fire that's still closing in, or his busted suit that can't get them past anything bigger than a crack in the sidewalk, or the fact that he's going to have to carry a six-foot-something supersoldier in a fireman's carry over his-- 

“Tony?”

Well, scratch one of those problems off of the list. He looks over to see Steve staggering to sit up from where Tony had left him on the pavement a few feet away, shaking his head to try and clear the dizziness that Tony is all too well aware of. 

“Hold still,” is Tony's only reply as he moves over so that he can scan Steve through the suit – pupil dilation, apparent heart rate, oxygen intake. Unsurprisingly, everything seems to be in good order, but it never hurts to check – not that he'll never admit to actually being worried. It only takes a few seconds, but Steve still manages to look perturbed in that short amount of time. He never seems to like exactly how much Tony can see from behind his helmet. 

“Tony, where--”

“We have to go, Cap,” Tony says urgently, turning back to look at the flames that are rapidly pressing in closer. The suit is working harder to keep its internal temperature down, and cooking inside of it has never been on Tony's to do list. “When we're out of here, you're going to tell me what the hell happened that knocked you on your ass for a good three minutes. I thought that your freakish limbic system could withstand that kind of shit.”

“Where's--”

“The suit's busted. We're going have to head up to the roof. I'm assuming you can walk?” He stands up, offering Steve a hand. “I'll have to get Jarvis to send a signal out. We're going to need a pickup. Are you--”

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve interrupts, this time with that voice that Tony associates with giving orders – and lectures. His Cap voice. “I need you to tell me where my shield is.”

“...oh. Um, well...” Tony turns his head toward the dumpster without even thinking about it, and Steve, the bastard, has the sense to follow his gaze. 

Something that probably used to be kung pao chicken hits the center of the shield with an odd mixture between a vibranium ringing and a disgusting _plop_ , and Tony knows when they get out of this, he's probably going to get even more familiar with the Cap voice.

Once Steve has gone to retrieve his shield, wiping the food off of it with deliberate motions that seem unbecoming of them being in a slightly life threatening situation, they manage to get to the top of the building largely without incident (Tony slipped once – it doesn't count) up the ladder. The quinjet drops by within minutes, and Barton loads the two of them in with an amused smirk.

They all sit together in the back in battle-exhausted silence, Clint next to Tony, Steve across from the two of them. While everyone else has loosened their proverbial tie knots, Steve hasn't even taken off his cowl, gloves still on, shield propped up against his knee.

Clint looks between the two of them like he _desperately_ wants to say something, but Steve speaks up first, leaning over his knees and the shield so that he's closer to Tony as he gives him a steady, stern look. Tony's still several feet away, but he feels like he should be leaning away. You know, for his own safety.

“When we get back,” Steve says, absolutely serious, “we're going to have a talk about you being responsible with the rest of the team's gear.”


	2. Chapter 2

The Talk happens sooner than Tony hopes – as in, it actually _happens_. 

After the debriefing, after Fury is done bitching about the importance of contingency plans and Clint is done snickering over Tony's apparent shield-throwing ineptitude, the group disperses and Tony does his best to slip out of the room without being noticed. He nearly makes it all the way to the elevator, but Steve catches up with him before he can make his escape. 

“Stark, hold up a minute.” 

Steve only calls him Stark when he's in trouble. He walks up next to Tony, who acknowledges him with a short nod, hands on the buckle of his utility belt (why is he still _wearing_ that?) as they watch the numbers on the elevator.

The elevator is about to stop on their floor, but Tony has the feeling he won't be getting on. “Come to thank me, Captain? I would've accepted a card. An email. A text, even. You know, 'ty 4 the assist. will pay u bck.' That kind of thing. But if you're insisting on doing it in person, I expect at least some grovel--”

He happens to look over at Steve and stops short. He's getting another one of those Looks. Who knew that Steve had so many? 

Steve stares at him for a few moments, then lets out a sigh like he's about to do something painful – which might not be far from the truth. He turns to face Tony, and because Tony's such a gentleman, he does the same. 

“I did want to thank you for what you did out there today,” Steve says slowly, obviously having chosen his words carefully ahead of time, “so thank you. If you hadn't found me when you did, who knows? Things could've ended a lot differently.”

Tony is opening his mouth to say something, but Steve keeps going, obviously wanting to get this over with.

“But I meant what I said about you being careful with everyone's gear. There's a lot on the line when we head out there, and we need everything we've got. You can't just--”

“Save your life? Take your stuff? I never pegged you for the kid who failed kindergarten, Cap'n.” 

“-- _use our gear without knowing what you're doing._ You could break it--”

“Vibranium is practically indestructible.”

“--or you could lose it--”

“It was under a dumpster! That's not the same as--”

“ _Look_ , Tony. I just want to make sure that if you ever have to grab our gear because of equipment failure, you know what you're doing.”

Tony waits for a few seconds this time to make sure that Steve is actually done lecturing, watching him carefully while Steve looks back at him. The elevator doors open with a _ding_ beside them and several agents filter out around them with fair breadth, familiar enough with Steve Rogers and Tony Stark Having a Disagreement to know that they shouldn't get between them. The door closes again, and Tony's missed his escape route.

“So what are you saying then?” Tony looks up at Steve, challenging. “You don't want me to touch the shield? Got it, done. Next time, we can just sit there and I'll wait until you wake up. Get you to sign my permission slip before I save your life.”

“That's not what I'm saying and you know it.” 

“Then what are you saying? You want me to sign up for lessons? Shield Throwing 101? Bashing Heads In with a Non-Weapon for Dummies?”

“That,” Steve lifts a finger, pointing at Tony, “is exactly what I'm saying.” He ignores Tony's indignant scoff and half-formed protests, finally smiling a little. 

It's not, Tony thinks, a nice smile.

“You rely on your tech more than any of us do. And if push comes to shove and you need to use some of our things as backup, you have to know what you're doing. So we'll have to teach you.” Steve looks way too happy about this, drumming his stupid red-gloved fingers on his arm as he folds his arms across his chest. 

Tony hates him, a little. “That's the stupidest--”

“Barton's volunteered to train you first. He insists that he's got the gear that requires the most finesse, and he seemed really eager to teach you.”

“Clint is the illegitimate child of Joseph Stalin and his fat, hairy--”

“He said he'd meet you in his usual training hall in half an hour. And to wear long sleeves.”

The elevator doors are opening again, and this time Steve steps in with a sideways grin that, even for Captain America, can only be described as _shit eating_. He gives Tony a salute, and Tony finally finds his words just as the doors are almost closed.

“...when did you guys even have time to _talk_ about this?!”

He hates the Avengers. Every single one of them.

* * *

Tony gives some very real thought to the possibility of ignoring everything that Steve has just said, catching the next elevator, and heading back to the tower, but he knows that that won't end well. He can already picture the constant barrage of texts from Clint:
    
    
    Hey Stark, where you at?
    
    I'm just waiting, darling. Waiting for you.
    
    Was it something I said?
    
    C'mon, I've got an arrow with your name on it.
    
    That was meant as encouragement. Not as me saying I was going to shoot you.
    
    Though that's _not_ to say I'm above that. Since you're standing me up and all.
    
    Stark.
    
    Stark.
    
    Stark.

This is exactly the scenario that Tony would like to avoid, so he heads to the training floor and makes his way to the room that Clint has practically taken residence in. It's filled with creepy mannequins for targets and scarily small high perches that Clint somehow manages to fit onto that Tony doesn't particularly like the thought of having to get anywhere near.

Thankfully, Clint doesn't seem to have that on the agenda for today. When Tony enters the room, he's standing by a rack of gear in his plainclothes restringing his own bow on a table, a quiver full of practice arrows slung over one arm along with the saddest looking compound bow he's ever seen.

That's probably for Tony.

“There he is!” Clint says without looking up, shrugging the quiver and the bow to hold out to Tony. Once Tony's taken it, he finishes what he's doing, then straightens up to give Tony that same grin that Steve gave him. It looks more fitting on Clint, but that doesn't make it any more comforting.

“So I'm guessing that the captain got to you,” he smiles, walking over toward some ordinary targets that are set up on the far side of the room and gesturing for Tony to follow.

Tony is preoccupied with slinging the quiver over his shoulders and trying to reach for an arrow like he's seen Clint do. He uses this as an opportunity to _not_ admit that Steve Rogers persuaded him to do anything. 

Clint is obviously holding back another laugh, smile, or something equally demeaning. “Right,” he says through a near chuckle, “I figured as much. You'll never be able to draw an arrow if you don't fix that.” He points to Tony's quiver, ignores the look Tony gives him, and comes up behind him to fix it himself, switching the shoulder it's draped off of and patting him overly soundly on the shoulder.

“There you go,” he grins, rubbing his hands together with sadistic glee as he steps back to look Tony over.

“Is this _really_ necessary?” Tony is starting to regret following orders. There's a reason that he never does.

“Put your arm up like you're going to shoot. I want to see your stance,” Clint says, blatantly ignoring Tony's whining, er, _protests_ , as he shoves the practice bow into Tony's left hand. “Now, your arm should be straight and pointing to down your line of sight. No one should ever-- well, _you_ shouldn't ever be firing unless you can have your arm in front of you. Spread your legs, keep your mind out of the gutter. Straighten out your wrist. Make sure-- _holy shit, what are you doing?!_ ”

Tony has pulled the string back on the bow, just to get a feel for things, and is about to loose it when Clint freaks out and grabs his wrist.

“Do you want to kill the bow? Is that what you want to do? Jesus, Stark, don't ever-- I mean _ever_ dry fire a bow. If you do anything that will hurt my bow I will know. I will know, and you will suffer. _I know where you sleep._ ”

From that point on, Tony doesn't move at all unless Clint tells him to.

The first part of the session goes about as painfully as expected. The work that Tony does in his lab is detail oriented, but to him, it's simple: a circuit works this way, it can never work this way, and sometimes, if you know what you're doing and you've made all of the right connections, it'll work _this_ way. There are rules, but there are workarounds.

This isn't the case with archery – at least, Clint points out, not for Tony. Never flex your wrist. Don't close one eye to try and take better aim. Hold the bow in your left hand like this, keep your shoulders square, and _my god_ , Tony, please never do that again. 

Tony has seen Clint break every single one of these rules, and says as much. 

“I've had a bow since I was old enough to breathe, Stark. How many times have you shot a bow?” Tony starts counting the number of times Clint has actually let him fire today in his head, and Clint cuts him off with a quickly raised hand. “Right now doesn't count.” The argument ends pretty quickly from there.

It takes a couple of hours, but once Tony's stopped doing everything wrong, Clint actually lets him at the targets on his own without instruction. First stationary, then moving. Tony's left arm is aching so much he can hardly hold onto the bow and his right shoulder is killing him, but he's pretty proud of himself. He's actually _hitting things_.

When Tony manages to hit within a foot of the bullseye on the moving targets, Clint looks as close to impressed as Tony suspects he'll get. 

“Not bad,” Clint shrugs, which Tony chooses to take as 'you have natural talent, Stark.' Working with the target controls to bring the hanging paper closer to them, Clint surveys the shot compared to the other, numerous holes and reaches over to clap Tony solidly on the shoulder.

“I have to take a leak. Nice job, we'll pick it up in five.”

In what has to be one of the more foolish moves of his precariously perched, sharp shooting life, Clint leaves Tony alone with the targets.

Tony looks to the door and then back at the remaining targets across the room, nocking an arrow in the practice bow. “Nice job,” he mutters as he looks down his arm at the target, “I'm doing an awesome job.” 

He shoots one arrow and misses. 

“...finger slipped,” he shrugs.

Shoots another, grazes the side of the target. 

“And my arms are really tired.”

One last one, to prove to himself that that he hasn't been standing around getting yelled at by Clint Barton for hours for nothing...

Bullseye.

“HA!” Tony practically drops the bow in an odd sort of victory dance, pointing at the target with his right hand as he whips his head around excitedly like there'll be someone to congratulate him. If he were back at the tower, Jarvis would have at least patted his ego - albeit lightly. For now he has no one but the security cameras rigged at the top corners of the room, and he's sure none of _them_ are impressed.

With half-muttered congratulations to himself, Tony surveys his good work, putting the bow down on the table where the rest of Clint's gear is laid out. All that with a bow that Clint had insisted he'd taught some seven year-old trainee with. _Just think,_ Tony ponders to himself, _what I can do with a real bow._

His gaze slides to the table. The one that Clint's bow is resting oh-so-invitingly on top of. 

It takes less than five seconds of intense internal struggle before Tony picks up the bow, replacing it on the table with his own. 

“Now _this_ is more like it,” Tony beams, holding the bow in his left hand like he's going to shoot it, testing its weight, the way it feels in his hand. 

The bow is a thing of beauty, really. It has a balance that the practice bow lacked, a gorgeous, slender pair of limbs that would probably make a better archer swoon. From experience on the field, Tony knows that it's deadly enough to heft as a melee weapon on its own, has a sexy laser sight, and there's just something... _different_ about it.

Tony takes that to mean that it's better. And c'mon – it has to be. Clint sits around shooting with the Ferrari of bows and gives him the Honda? It doesn't seem fair.

He takes a shot and lands it close to the bullseye, but not quite. Then another. And another. Holy shit, he's hitting things, and that feels like another celebration. For one last final shot – Clint has to be coming back from the can soon – he's feeling pretty good. He stikes a pose that he's seen Clint do, turns the bow to a slight angle as he draws it back. He's not sure what the point of it is, but it looks cool, so Tony wants to try. He hopes he looks badass when he looses the arrow, letting one last shot fly.

He's not quite sure how it happens, but the bow seems to explode and there is a very sharp, sudden burn on his arm like he's been hit with a whip.

“Son of a _bitch!_ ” Tony curses, hand instantly going to his forearm. 

The string of the bow has come off of its track, and Tony pulls up the long sleeve of his shirt to look at his arm where a long, angry red welt is starting to form. He sucks in a pained hiss of air, then turns to put Clint's Bow of Pain back down on the table... only to see Clint standing behind him, arms folded as he does something that can only be described as glowering.

Clint snatches the bow from Tony before he can even come up with an excuse and points a finger at him. 

“Remember my promise, Stark. _You will suffer._ ” Tony finds it funny, how angry he seems, until he remembers that Clint knows about a dozen different ways to kill a man with nothing but that damned bow.

Tony puts his hands out with what he hopes is a placating tone. “Hey, I'm sorry, I don't know what happened, it just sort of expl--” 

“You derailed the string.”

“--and I can see why that's a problem. But look, there's something up with your bow anyway, I couldn't get anything to line up properly. If you want me to take a look at it,” Tony starts hopefully, and then Clint is giving him the evil eye again.

“I shoot lefthanded, genius. You were shooting from the wrong side.”

Oh.

After giving him a long, hard look, Clint turns back to the table, laying the bow across it like some sort of ER patient. He doesn't even look over his shoulder as he talks to Tony, running his hand along one of the limbs of the bow. 

“Next lesson will be when I don't feel like causing severe damage to your femoral artery. Tell the captain I said so,” Clint says darkly and with a tone that says, absolutely, that Tony is excused.

After he's put his equipment down, Tony makes a very hasty exit from the training room and prays he doesn't get an arrow to the back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to worry - not every chapter left is going to take place with Tony locked in a training room with a surly Avenger - there was just no way that I could let Tony conceivably try to use a bow with no prior experience in combat. I don't want to torture him _that_ badly.
> 
> I did, however, give him a mean welt. If you want to see what happened since I only know the faintest things about archery and because you have some serious love of schadenfreude, [watch this clip](http://youtu.be/AJoxJJjcQFU?t=1m14s) until you see the welt the guy gets. Unpleasant stuff, and apparently a really good way to mess up your bow. If you are worried, though, I promise - the bow is fine. I make no guarantees about Tony.
> 
> Not sure who'll be up next, but it's definitely going to be something in the field. Hope to see you folks soon!


End file.
